


Something in the Air

by Byrcca



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Just Another Day in the Delta Quadrant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 04:41:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14012403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byrcca/pseuds/Byrcca
Summary: Just why does Kathryn Janeway feel the need to touch Tom Paris, anyway?





	Something in the Air

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as a birthday present for my pal and old partner in crime, LA. It’s the first fan fic I’ve written in about fifteen years.

***

Though Kathryn Janeway didn’t tend to spare it much thought, the inevitable reality did, on occasion, have to be acknowledged. And though she had been granted her captaincy at an age young enough to be considered laudable, albeit not quite as young as the legendary James T. Kirk, she had to admit that she would soon be flying away from forty at high warp. 

Oh, she wasn’t feeling old, per se, but she recognized that she’d lost some strength in her core and arms, and keeping in prime condition, per Starfleet regulations, didn’t come quite as easily as it used to. Of course, she could still beat the implants off Seven at velocity, sweat or no. And her legs were good. Damn fine, actually. And if she didn’t have the hearing of a Vulcan, or the Klingon sense of smell, she had the eyes of an Indiana red-shouldered hawk. 

And those eyes picked up a glint where there shouldn’t be one. Again. 

The first time she’d noticed, she hadn’t been sure. She’d known of his preference for water showers, a piece of trivia picked up from living and working in close quarters, and wondered if it weren’t a drop of moisture, dripped from his hair after his morning shower. But no, because the flash was much too small, and there was more than one anyway, winding along his red-clad shoulder and curving toward the seam of red and black at his back. She stood and walked toward him, her pace measured, her stance relaxed. “Status, Mister Paris.” Her voice casual, her tone light. 

“Umm, warp six point three, heading zero two one, mark two, Captain. Heading for home.” Tom swung around and looked a question at her just as she reached the helm. She dropped a hand to his back, curled her fingers across the bright red fabric. “Good. As you were.” 

A tiny nod, his lips curved in a slight smile of acknowledgement, he spun his chair and once more faced front, and her palm glided across his shoulder from scapula to trapezius, gathering up her prize, fisting it gently, before she pulled her hand back to her side. He didn’t seem to notice, was glancing at the view screen, stars streaking past Voyager’s nose. A tilt of his head downward to check the readings on the helm displays, another glance upward. 

Kathryn took a step to her left. She leaned down, her head close to his, lips at his ear, her voice maybe quiet enough that Lieutenant Tuvok couldn’t hear, “You’re out of uniform, Tom.” She brought her arm over the console, opened her fist and dropped the long, russet-brown hair onto the top of his hand. It settled between his knuckles, curled along his index finger. His hand didn’t twitch, she’d give him that. 

By the colour and length, it could have been her own, but it wasn’t. Her lips quirked. One of the Delaney sisters? She didn’t really want to guess. They lived too much in each other’s back pockets on this ship as it was. She tried to stay out of her crew’s private lives but Tom Paris and his exploits had been the subject of the ship’s rumour mill on more than one occasion. 

She straightened, watched as he shook his fingers free of the curl, watched the tips of his ears turn bright red. The curse of the fair skinned. “Sorry, ma’am.” He wouldn’t look at her. 

She bit the inside of her lip so she wouldn’t grin. Starfleet frowned on bullying. They gave several classes on diplomacy in fact, all of which she’d excelled at in her time at the Academy. Tom had taken the same classes, she was sure. But this was teasing, something Tom himself regularly indulged in at Ensign Kim’s expense. In fact, that ma’am was a subtle Paris jibe in itself. A tiny retribution. A little flash of independence. 

“Won’t happen again, Captain.”

But, of course, it had. In a senior staff meeting in her ready room: short and bright blonde—much brighter than his own dirty blonde—clinging to his black-clad arm. Ensign Jenkins? Kes? Crewman Larson? Likely not. It didn’t mean anything really, the air filters did their best, but after years without a full overhaul, Voyager’s systems were rarely at peak efficiency. The ship was plagued with floating hair, dust, skin cells, moulds...it didn’t bare close scrutiny if one wanted to keep their lunch down. That task was hard enough, most days. 

She’d taken to brushing him down whenever she spied that telltale glimmer, not because it bothered her, but because it embarrassed him. At least it had at first, until the shade had changed to a rich, dark brown, and the frequency had increased. She’d wondered idly if he’d picked up a pet somewhere and secreted it onboard. Of course, the origin of his clothing’s hirsute-ness had become spectacularly, embarrassingly obvious when those aliens had inflicted their experiments on her crew...

But now, after more than three years, he and B’Elanna had moved beyond the interests of even the ship’s most bored gossips and firmly cemented their relationship within the realm of ‘old news’. Oh, they still caused ripples, but their battles had become almost as boring as their peace. The first time she’d spied a curly hair, she’d caught her breath and felt a sense of loss she hadn’t expected. Surely they hadn’t separated and, even if they had, Tom couldn’t have moved on so quickly. She would have known; it would have been the talk of the ship! And then she’d spied them in the messhall at dinner, heads together, his light, hers dark, curly, sharing smiles and secrets, and she’d felt relief. 

Now, she had only to stare pointedly at his shoulder and his hand would rise, fingers flicking at imaginary traces, just in case. Now, instead of pinking when confronted with the sign of their obvious affection, he would simply smile and pluck the evidence from his uniform and drop it to the carpet. But occasionally, she’d catch him as he closed his fingers around it, holding on for a few moments. 

Today it was nestled between his shoulder blades. She bided her time, rose from her chair and made a point of stretching, circling the bridge, chatting with her officers as they manned their posts. Coming to stand behind him, she reached out slowly, stealthily, and captured the long, dark, straight (again) hair and, oh so gently, raised her hand and dropped it on the top of his head. She gave his head a rub, his springy hair pushing up between her fingers, messing it a little, anchoring B’Elanna’s hair in place. His glance was quizzical. 

“How are you this morning, Tom?” 

“Just fine, Captain.” It was a question. 

“Good.” A little pat to his head, just to be sure. “That’s good.”

***


End file.
